Spark
by kalabangsilver
Summary: Harry driving Ruth to work. Set near the end of season 4.


_Spark_

.

"It just irritates me," Ruth griped, softly. "There is no consistency on the subject _at all_."

"Indeed..." Harry murmured, steering the Range Rover gently into the outer lane of his road and indicating to turn left at the next exit. He was not particularly paying much attention to the conversation. He was not particularly needing to. Since he had picked her up at the park of the end of his street – where she happened to pick up a dead-drop before work, once a fortnight – she had been chatting away quite happily on everything from the weather to characterisation in modern and classic literature. The topic of the moment was monsters and villains.

"Their portrayal even in the classical literature varies," his companion continued. "It's amazing, really, when you think about it. These characters, written no more than twenty-five years apart, have more disparity between them than Greek myths stretching over hundreds ."

"It is interesting," Harry replied, gazing out the window at the street ahead of them.

London was bright and sparkling. Pre-dawn rains had given to a bright spring day and the sun was shining off of the water still clinging to the trees and buildings. Glass and metal sparkled. This was the city at its prettiest, Harry thought. His companion probably disagreed. She had once told him, up on the rooftop of Thames House, that she preferred it in the dusk, with the lights twinkling around. Such were the differences between them. Harry did not begrudge the differences, however. The differences made them who they were.

Glancing over at Ruth, who was still chatting away, he wondered whether she collected all of the little details about him, as he did for her. Probably not, he told himself. He was probably being a silly old man. Ruth was a young thing, pretty and clever and far too whole for the likes of him. She spent her days joking with Adam and flirting with Zafar Younis. She had everything left ahead of her, a love someday, a family, all of which he had been through and lost. She was at the beginning of the prime of her life. He was at the end.

Still, she looked at him, sometimes, and it was flattering. The way her eyes sparked when he made a joke, the way she anticipated his next words in the briefing room – it made him feel young again, made him feel alive like he had not felt in years. She was attracted to the position he held, he was more than sure. She liked him well enough, but it would be the power and the forbidden thrill of flirting with her boss that made her throw those glances his way. Ten years ago he would have used that. He would have found her, one night, in the dark safety of the Grid and tried his luck. He would have seduced her and bedded her and played out any fantasies she had about shagging her boss. Hell, never mind ten years ago, he thought – he would have done it five years ago. But not now. Now, he was too old for any of that. And Ruth was a first-rate analyst, besides, he reminded himself. She was the cleverest he had ever had the chance to work with. He wouldn't want to throw that aside for a quick screw and an ego boost.

He would still let himself give her lifts around the city, however – early in the morning when she was picking up a dead-drop before work. He would still try a bit too hard to be in the right place at the right time, so that she would be on his way. He would still let himself watch her, surreptitiously, across his office and out of the corner of his eye. He would still let her fuel his occasional fantasies. After all, what he did alone in his bedroom and Ruth did not know about could not possibly count as sexual harassment. Or endangering their working relationship.

On his left, Ruth continued to chat on, blithely unaware of his thoughts.

"Look at the book we were talking about earlier, for example," she told him, gesturing with one slender hand as they slalomed around a broken-down car on Grosvenor road. "As opposed to some portrayals of the creatures, in which they have their own societies and hierarchal structure, the activities of this one antagonist were supposed to be unknown to the general population. But the villagers knew. Incidentally," she interrupted herself, frowning in that particularly 'Ruth' way she had – soft lines in her brow, the light tensing of her lip. "Did you ever gather why the villagers only abstractly warned the visitors of the danger? That always frustrated me."

"I found it a little odd, too," he admitted.

"Yes, its a ridiculous premise, isn't it?" she asked bluntly. "And that's not even the worst part. He's not supposed to cross running water, correct?"

"So they say."

"So how does he cross the channel?"

"There is soil involved," Harry reminded her, as they pulled past a grid-locked section of the embankment. He would like to have elaborated on his point but, even squinting hard, school-level English classes were too perilous long a time ago for him to dredge up any quotes. "And a coffin," he eventually finished, lamely.

"But he must have crossed water up in Yorkshire," Ruth continued, "when he was swanning around up there. There are rivers and streams up there, aren't there? Canals and suchlike?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Harry could not resist.

"Yes, Yorkshire has canals," he informed her, with mock helpfulness. "It's become rather civilised of late. They're even working on hooking them up to water mains and the national grid."

Ruth threw him a slightly withering look. "My point is," she pressed on, "he must have to cross water at some point, when he was fluttering around as a bat and whatnot. Don't you agree?"

Harry nodded.

"Exactly." Ruth looked vindicated. "And on the subject of swanning around as a bat," she added, eyes flashing very blue, "there is huge incongruity between myths concerning shape-shifting. Nobody specifies limits. Le Fanu's Carmilla comes in the form of a cat-like creature, but Stoker's creature can become bat and wolf-beasts and everything in between." She tilted her head, looking striking in the morning light. "And sometimes they fly. And sometimes they don't. They all seem to die when they are plunged through with a stake but silver is only fatal in those of North American mythology. They are all repelled by holy symbols and garlic, yet sunlight does not affect them unless they're from Stoker, Le Fanu or the author who wrote that tosh about the sparkly ones... oh, you know the one,"

Harry shook his head. He had no idea.

"Never mind," she gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "What they can do and what can kill them aside, the worst thing is that nobody can actually settle on the nature of their physical form. European myths have them as being ruddy and blotchy while the North Americans have them as pale. Most have fangs, but whether they are retractable or not, is debatable. Some can be seen in a mirror but Dracula can't - but he does have a shadow, I believe - which is almost as confusing as the matter of them interbreeding with humans."

Harry looked over in surprise, then quickly back at the road, straightening up the nose of the car.

"Ruth, you're going to have to explain that one," he told her, unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

Her cheeks flushed pink.

"Most stories have them reproducing through transfusion or bite," she explained, her words suddenly a little unsteady and nervous – a stark contrast with her earlier authority. "Or some combination of those two events. Some, however, including Stoker's version, are theorised to have a certain degree of fertility." She cleared her throat. "The similarity in the three sisters in the castle and the count... aquiline noses and other traits... it's just implied, of course, but a lot of historians suggest that they are his daughters or sisters, which implies they... reproduce like humans. And could with humans." She cleared her throat again then turned her head, staring back out into the street, stopped short in her tirade.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Harry offered, "I take it that you are not a fan of modern gothic romance, then, what with all the inter-species shagging?"

Ruth's eyes widened, very slightly, as she stared out the front of the car. "Not particularly," she answered, in a voice a little higher than usual.

Harry reigned in a chuckle, training his own eyes forwards too.

Ruth caught off-guard. It was a rare occurrence. So often in their verbal sparring it was him that ended up suddenly in a corner. She was so very clever. It was only ever on matters such as this one, or the horrors of the criminal underworld, where Harry came out top.

Sex and death, he thought, the mirth faltering slightly in his chest – it was not the most pleasant of subjects to have as one's forte, was it? Was that what he had become, over the late ten years, he wondered? Was that all he had left to offer the world, now? Tightening his fingers on the steering wheel, he swallowed against the sudden and surprisingly strong surge of regret that drove through him as he steered the car on. Past several tall buildings, he and Ruth held their gentle silence. Past one last street, they both prepared themselves for the eventuality of their arrival. Then, arriving at the great rectangular stone building on the corner of the bridge, Harry slowed the car to a halt in line with the pavement and pulled the handbrake on. They were here. Their building. Their place.

Leaning back, he turned to Ruth across the car.

"Well, this has been greatly illuminating," he told her, bravado slipping back into place after his momentary lapse. "If I'm free, I shall have to give you a lift when next you pick up that drop. We could move onto the inaccurate depiction of werewolves in modern day literature."

"Actually," Ruth murmured, still looking slightly embarrassed and breathless, "their portrayal is not, generally, so terribly unrestrained."

"Zombies it is then," Harry nodded, and her face lit, the embarrassment fleeing to be replaced with gentle warmth.

Smiling, she looked down, fiddling with the strap of her handbag. "Zombies it is," she agreed.

Watching her across the car, Harry felt the sudden urge to lean over and kiss her, as if he were dropping her off to work in a different scenario – one where they came in, in the mornings, from the same place; one where they had just spent the night deep inside one another, making sweet and passionate love before falling back to their sheets and discussing whatever aspect of literature to her heart's content.

As soon as the thought hit, however, worry flickered to life within his chest. That was not the sort of safe, contained sort of thought he was supposed to be allowing, he reminded himself anxiously. He was supposed to be storing any spark between them away, as ammunition for moments when he was alone and needed to de-stress. Ruth was supposed to be nothing more than his clever, pretty analyst, who might have a bit of a thing for him – something to stroke his ego as he stroked himself – someone to occasionally wonder about, and to enjoy being a friend to, but certainly not someone to develop emotions for. People like Ruth did not last long, in their line of work. She was too young, to tender, to naive and sweet. He would only be setting himself up for pain – (taking it for granted, that was, that she even was interested in him in that way).

Suddenly noticing that they had both been silent for almost ten seconds, Harry parted his lips, hoping words would fall to them and make sense. None did, however, and they were left just watching each other for another inordinately long few moments. Eventually, however, Ruth gathered herself and spoke.

"I pick up the drop every two weeks," she informed him, softly.

Harry tried very hard to look calm and politely interested.

"But if you're free," she continued, "I would very much appreciate a lift. It takes two busses to get in otherwise."

"Well, you give me a call on the day and I'll pick you up if I've not left yet," he told her. "You're on my route in, anyway," he added, suddenly very glad of all the years of training he had had – the only thing that was keeping his voice from sounding strained, now. "It's no bother."

"I will." She smiled and adjusted her light jacket, sliding the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. "By the way, you don't have to drop me up at the door," she added, showing just a hint of her earlier boldness. "I can walk up from wherever you park this thing just as well as you can. I don't want to put you out."

"You never do, Ruth," he murmured softly, then – realising exactly how softly he had replied – cleared his throat and forced his words hard again. "I'll see you upstairs in around ten minutes. If you could get onto Adam about chasing down any open US extradition orders, that would be fantastic."

A slight pinking of her cheeks told Harry that she had picked up on his little slip in composure, but her voice was steady as ever when she replied. Maybe she would last long with them, he thought, nodding in response to her question. Maybe she was a better spook than she had assumed she was. She was a constant surprise to him. Maybe she would be one of his longest serving officers. Maybe she would outlast him...

"The Company are still acting flighty then?" she asked.

"They are up to something," he nodded, with a sigh. "Two last week and the CIA helicopter over at Grosvenor is on standby, for later this morning. I've petitioned the Home Secretary on the subject but they are so cuddled up to the Americans right now that I fear I'll have to start lopping off limbs before I get my point across..."

Ruth gave a little noise of disgruntlement, then reached behind her and pulled the car door open.

"I'll get Adam onto it and check up on any paperwork going through GCHQ," she assured him. Then, slipping out the door, she stepped up onto the curb and turned to look back at him. She wore a gentle smile, eyes flashing nervously but with genuine pleasure. "Thanks for the lift, Harry," she told him, quietly.

"My pleasure."

She closed the door and he watched her take a few steps before turning and pulling back out into traffic.

His heart was beating slightly faster than usual in his chest.

Bugger it, Harry, he told himself, gritting his teeth as he moved into lane to do an extra loop around the building and head down to the car lots. She's your best bloody analyst. Why can't you develop an inappropriate infatuation with someone else? Of course, it was easy enough to say that, Harry thought, as he pulled away into the street. These things were always easier said than done. Despite knowing he needed to nip this in the bud, something at the back of his mind was already whispering '_don't, it's Ruth'_ to him and his heart was beginning to respond. This was more than him being flattered by her attentions, Harry thought, with a tiny thrill of anxiety. It was a little more than a little frustrated lust – at least, on his part it was. It was emotional connection. He _liked_ her.

He was not sure when the feeling had sprung into life inside of him. That he had not noticed it before now probably meant that it was a relatively recent occurrence. It certainly hadn't been something that had always been there. Initially, Ruth had been someone he rather put up with, because of her skills with languages and computers. After that, she had become a friend. She had become a trusted confidant. Maybe it would fade if he stopped fantasising over her, they could go back to that stage, he thought, rolling his eyes at himself as he missed his lane and had to take a detour around the block. Maybe he should just stop being such an idiot, he told himself, and involve himself with one of the pleasanter women Jim Coaver had introduced him to, the last time he was over. Maybe he should just get laid and relax a bit – stop obsessing. He had always been a terrible one for obsessing...

Yes, he told himself, finding the right lane and heading steadily along it, making his way towards the car lots. That was what he would do. He would go find some nice woman to ask on a date. Actually, on second thoughts, he would not ask anybody too nice. He didn't want to disappoint anyone he liked. He could always ask Juliet, his mind suggested, but he vetoed that idea almost as soon as it had arisen. Whatever youthful fumblings he and Juliet had indulged in, they were different people now. They could set each other's teeth on edge at the best of times and she was (technically) his rank superior, now, in situations of national emergency. They would probably end up killing each other, he thought, matter of factly. It was a bad idea. Besides, a small voice murmured grumpily, in the back of his mind. He did not want Juliet... (Just like he did not want any of the lovely women Jim had introduced him to...)

...He wanted Ruth.

Pulling up to the security entrance to the lot, he dug through his pocket and found his identification, feeling a tiny surge of embarrassment when the young man on duty recognised him on sight and waved him through, not bothering to look at his credentials. It was the same young man who had been on duty when he had left late last night, thought Harry, giving a slightly sheepish smile. That meant he had been gone from Thames House for less than eight hours. No bloody wonder he was starting to fall in love with his analysts, he thought, trying to push it all aside for the moment. He was spending entirely too much time here.

Shaking himself, he parked the car and proceeded up to the Grid, making sure not to look at Ruth as he crossed to his office and settled down to look through his inbox, at the files which seemed to have multiplied in his short absence. He would put it all aside, for now, he told himself. He would distance himself for a few days and see if the strange little spark between them began to fade away. If it did, then good. If it didn't... well, he would just have to deal with that when it came.

Despite the complexity it would cause, Harry found a secret part of him hoping that it wouldn't fade away. There was something in the way she had made him feel earlier, something that he had not felt in years and – ill advised as he knew it was – he could not help but want to taste it again. Pausing through leafing through a report, he glanced out through his window, at his people scattered around their desks, and found Ruth standing next to Zaf's. She was leaning over, pointing something out with the back of a pen. As he watched, Zaf said something to her and it made her smile, then she said something back and stood up straight, making her way back to her own desk as she explained something. She was still smiling softly to herself when she reached it, lips curved softly. Harry watched as she set down her file and dropped herself into her seat, logging quickly into her computer, fingers flying over the keys. She brought something up on the screen, noted something down with her pen, on a pad of paper then, pausing just a moment, she glanced up towards him.

Harry looked quickly down at his files.

Probably best he just kept his mind on work for now, he told himself, trying to ignore the soft burning of her eyes as she continued to watch him through the glass. Best he just gave himself some time to get over this before it devolved into something silly that he could not take back. On the other side of the glass, some movement dragged Ruth away and Harry felt his heart begin to plateau and then, eventually, slow. At his own desk, the ping alert of a message from the Home Secretary demanded his attention and soon his mind was far too busy to linger on thoughts of Ruth and their little interlude in the car, earlier that morning. The day went on, chaos compounding on itself and desiring their attentions and the glances were almost forgotten.

As they packed up for the night, however, terror averted and a stiff drink needed, Harry could not help but watch her as she pulled her jacket tight around her body and slipped her bag over her shoulder. He watched her as she closed down her system and organised her desk so that it was ready in the morning. He watched her as she gave a last report to Adam and headed towards the door. And he felt a thrill, when she threw him one last glance before she disappeared out through the pods – a little half-wave with her fingertips just before she stepped through.

They would just have to wait and see, he told himself, turning his eyes back down to his work. Maybe it would fade and maybe it wouldn't.

.


End file.
